


I've Got My Spy On (You)

by nonverbalspell (AnionsareOnions), orphan_account



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, pidge is nonbinary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-04 02:18:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13354422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnionsareOnions/pseuds/nonverbalspell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Keith is an ethical thief-one of the best in the business. Even he needs someone to have his back sometimes, even if he doesn't believe it.





	I've Got My Spy On (You)

Keith wakes up groggy, which is the case every time he blows an operation. He sits up with a groan and tries to rub the sleep out of his eyes, feeling every muscle twinge and bruise on his body as he stretches and cracks his back. Thin beams of sunlight shine through his blinds, dimly illuminating the room.

Old cups and crumpled papers litter his desk and as Keith stares at them, he lazily thinks that he should clean up more.

With a deep breath, he steels himself to get up, not wanting to leave the warmth of his bed to face what is sure to be the chew out of the century. Shiro is going to take him to task for last night, and Keith knows he’s thoroughly earned it.

Despite it being what he wants to do least in the world, Keith swings his legs out over the bed and hauls himself to his feet. His legs burn from a combination of overexertion and lack of movement—climbing down the stairs of his building was going to hurt.

He nudges last night’s clothes under his desk on his way to the closet and grabs his usual outfit. His fingers pause however, after grabbing his usual shirt and jeans: his favorite jacket is poking out from having slipped half off its hanger. After a beat, he pulls it from its precarious perch and slings it over his shoulders.

It may be early June, but Keith would whether the heat and the sweat if it meant he’d have somewhere to shove his hands during the dressing-down he was in for.

He grabs a pair of socks from his dresser and trudges out of his room. His apartment is silent and if he looks closely, he can see flecks of dust dancing in the sunbeams peaking in through the curtains. He avoids the beams, half out of some whimsical desire to leave the dust to its dance and half out of the knowledge that moving through it would just let it settle on his skin.

His fridge is nearly empty, but he has enough to make a quick breakfast for one. When the toast pops up, he quickly butters it and tosses it on a plate next to some quickly cooling eggs. Not even bothering with a drink, Keith sits down at the table, stretching his legs out to rest on the chair facing him. As his legs settle on it, the chair creaks from disuse.

The TV remote is sitting in the middle of the table between the salt and pepper. He picks it up and (after brushing off some salt) turns the TV on.

_“—POLICE AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE SURROUNDING THE BUILDING, TRYING TO DISCOVER HOW THE INTRUDER BROKE THROUGH THE FIRST AND SECOND LAYERS OF SECURITY—”_

Keith winces as the cameras put Carmelo Manor on full display.

_“—UNKNOWN AT THE TIME WHAT THEY WERE AFTER, BUT AUTHORITIES BELIEVE—”_

He turns off the TV and tosses the remainder of his meal in the trash.

“Time to go face the music,” he says to no one. Grabbing the duffle bag he threw on the couch the night before, Keith toes on his shoes and locks the door behind him.

And what din, what cacophony, was waiting for him—as he drove, he could only brace himself for what was coming for him.

* * *

Pidge is already working when Keith comes in with a lukewarm coffee in hand. They look up briefly from their computer as he passes, lips pressed into a hard line.

“Morning,” they say, and Keith nods back, feeling appropriately humbled by the not-quite-anger he can feel coming off Pidge. He’s not surprised that they’re upset—Pidge had been extremely excited about the job and had crowed at how well they had pulled Carmelo Manor’s defenses apart for Keith.

“Shiro took a phone call, but he’s on his way back,” they continue, eyes briefly flickering to the monitor to their right. “You might want to prepare yourself.”

Keith glances over Pidge’s shoulder to see Shiro walking back to their building from the feed of one of several cameras that Pidge has hooked up in and around the building. Keith has been working with them for far too long to be put off by this particular brand of stalking—Pidge wants to know every aspect of their environment at all times, and Keith can’t fault them for being thorough. Pidge’s exhaustive, systematic appraisal of everything they saw had saved the day far too often for Keith to be anything other than thankful that his teammate cared so much for their work.

“Any idea what I’m in for?” Keith mutters into his coffee, leaning back on the empty desk next to Pidge’s own. It wasn’t like Hunk to be late, but Keith was in no position to question another teammate’s work ethics at the moment.

Pidge shrugs.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen him like this,” they admit almost sourly. “You should probably get your house in order, settle your debts and all that. I’ve got this nice plot of land I was saving if I die, but I’ll use it on you if it helps ease your passing.”

Keith can never tell if Pidge is joking or not.

The door swings open without a sound and Shiro storms in. It’s not exactly the right way to describe his leader’s long, purposeful gait, but Keith can’t compare Shiro to anything less when he’s got a fire in his eyes that lights every move he makes with divine, unerring purpose.

There’s a reason, after all, that Shiro leads and Keith falls into line.

Shiro stops in front of him; nothing about him betrays any trace of anger, but Keith can’t help but feel that his leader is angry at him. It’s not every day losing a twenty million dollar Navajo tapestry can be blamed on a single person’s actions. Keith is just lucky like that.

“I’m sure I don’t need to impress upon you how stupid you acted last night,” Shiro says. Keith’s hands push themselves into his pockets on their own accord. He nods.

“It’s going to be, liberal estimation, another two years before we can take a crack at that tapestry again,” Shiro continues, eyes burning but face still, inexplicably, devoid of anything. It’s actually extremely unsettling to see Shiro display the same single-minded intensity he usually reserves for particularly intense jobs. “Two years that Rodger Belington knows we’re coming for him. That little stunt you pulled has quadrupled everyone’s workload. You’ve denied the Navajo people access to their cultural heritage because you can’t sit still and trust your team.”

“Shiro, I—”

Shiro holds up a hand and Keith’s words die in his throat.

“Pidge had the door behind you open the _second_ you jumped at the two patrols. Hunk designed everything you had on you, which, I’m sure you recall, included the wrist watch that muffles the sound of knobs and hinges and the cloak you had _over your shoulders_ that, when _stationary_ , refracts enough light to make you nearly invisible during the daytime at point blank range, let alone in a dark hallway behind a wall!

“And if you couldn’t have enough faith in either of them, you should have waited for my call,” Shiro seethes, “but you didn’t. You disobeyed a direct order. And maybe worst of all, you threw one of them _onto_ the alarm when you were _inches_ away from the target. It was the sloppiest maneuver I’ve ever seen in the field. It could have gotten you killed and Hunk’s tech taken from us.”

Shiro pauses, waiting to see if Keith has anything to say. He doesn’t.

Astonishingly, Shiro softens.

“We can’t lose you over something like that,” he says, cupping a hand over Keith’s shoulder. In his pockets, Keith’s hands, which had been balled into fists, unclench. “You’re too good a field agent.”

 _‘Too good a friend,’_ remains unspoken, but clear from Shiro’s tone. His hand is warm and steady on Keith’s shoulder. He tries not to touch anyone with his metal prosthetic unless he’s trying to intimidate them.

“Which is why I’m not sending you into the field alone anymore.”

Keith blanches.

“ _What?”_ he squawks because, one bad night alone, Keith is a pretty damn good operative. He’s quick on his feet and good in a fight, agile and able to get into the trickiest places with ease. “ _Shiro_ , that’s insane! You can’t do this without me—”

Shiro gives him a look that clearly says he’s not convinced that Keith is the only person in the world with a skillset that suites Shiro’s needs, but since he’s already got Keith, he’s willing to indulge the statement.

“Calm down, Keith,” Shiro placates, perhaps more than Keith deserves. “I’m not retiring you because of one screw up in a pretty clean history of success.”

“But you just said—”

“—that I’m not sending you in _alone_ ,” Shiro says. “Now you better play nice, or I’ll bench you until we’re ready to try for that tapestry again.”

Keith closes his mouth tight; he knows that Shiro isn’t a man who makes threats lightly.

“You’re hotheaded,” Shiro continues, “you aren’t good with handling people. Subtlety isn’t your strong suit, and neither is holding back. You’re a great agent Keith, despite these shortcomings. But it’s time we balanced that bluntness with a bit of… _finesse._ ”

Shiro presses a button on his sleeve.

“Hunk, bring him in,” he says, and Keith’s world would never be the same again.

* * *

Hunk comes in a few minutes later, speaking amicably with a shorter man. Keith can see he’s young, maybe even younger than Keith, but clearly older than Pidge. Everyone was older than Pidge though, so that first assessment didn’t do much for Keith.

“Crew,” Shiro says, gesturing that the mystery man should stand beside him as Hunk quickly slid by Keith, “this is Lance, our newest field agent.”

Lance is wearing a goofy grin and runs a hand through his short brown hair in some sort of nervous tick. He holds up a hand in greeting and says,

“Nice to meet everyone!”

Something shifts in Keith, but he can’t place it. It’s overshadowed very quickly by the fact that Shiro has brought in an unknown, untested factor into Keith’s work and life, and judging by the bright eyes and bushy tail of the man in front of him, an unexperienced factor as well.

“Lance, this is Pidge,” Shiro says, ignoring Keith’s unapologetic staring the way only Shiro knows how. “They’re in charge of getting us in to and out of anywhere we need to be. They handle the software side of things for the most part, but in a pinch they’re excellent with field analytics.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lance says, offering a hand out to Pidge. Shockingly, after a moment of hesitation, Pidge drops their walls and offers Lance a smile in return.

“It’s a pleasure,” Pidge says. “Hopefully you’ll last longer than the last guy. May God rest is soul.”

There’s a moment of silence in which Keith thinks (and hopes) that Pidge spooked the new guy enough that he wouldn’t be Keith’s newest problem.

Another beat of silence and—Lance _laughs._ He doesn’t brush off the weird, macabre sense of humor that is so quintessentially Pidge.  

“I was actually going to ask about death benefits after the introduction, but since you’ve brought him up, how did you handle the last guy who worked here?”

“With extreme care,” Pidge says solemnly. “Shipped that sucker straight on home. It’s sort of an everyone for themselves type arrangement that we’ve got going on. I mean, I _offered_ Keith my plot, but I guess he doesn’t need it. And I didn’t make that offer lightly; I’ve got some grade A turf waiting for me if I ever kick it.”

Lance laughs again and Pidge takes his hand, giving it a firm, friendly shake.

“Here’s hoping you never need it,” Lance says, and great, now Keith has two senses of humor he doesn’t understand.

Shiro’s lip is twitching like he wants to laugh behind them, but doesn’t for the sake of work place etiquette.

“If you ever need anything, Pidge is the person to ask,” Shiro says. “And of course, you already know Hunk. He’s our resident Q. Genius engineer with a knack for inventing like I’ve never seen. He’s brilliant. Give him a problem and he’s solved it in hours. We’d be lost without him.”

Lance whistles appreciatively and turns to Hunk.

“It sounds like you’ve undersold yourself a little there, roomie,” he says, eyes warm like it was the worst secret in the world that Hunk was amazing at anything he did.

Hunk shrugs, but he can’t hide the blush on his cheeks any better than Keith can whenever he’s embarrassed. Shiro smiles good-naturedly and turns to Keith.

“I run logistics,” he says. “I’m basically the voice in your ear in the field. If I say jump, you say how high and all of that. Which leaves—”

“Keith,” Keith says his own name, offering Lance a stiff hand.

“Our field agent,” Shiro says. “Well, the other one, now. Keith has mastered several forms of defensive and offensive fighting styles and is well regarded as one of the best in the business. He may have started with us earlier than you Lance, but you are both equals on the field.”

Lance nods and turns back to Keith, a genuine smile gracing his lips. He takes Keith’s hand and it’s warm, warmer than Keith would have thought it would be.

“It’s nice to meet you, Keith,” Lance says.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Shiro, can I talk to you for a second?”

* * *

“What can this guy actually do?” Keith asks hotly the second the door to Shiro’s office closes behind him. “Or is he actually _just_ Hunk’s roommate? Is this some bizarre punishment you’ve come up with for me Shiro, because if it is, I _swear—_ ”

“—Lance is the newest member of this team, Keith,” Shiro says with just as much fire behind his words as Keith had. “I expect you to treat him as such.”

“So what, I take him on the field and wait for this guy to get us both killed?” Keith asks. “Because he doesn’t look like he’s got an ounce of muscle on him, let alone any training in covert ops—and the guy is an open book!”

“Assumptions only get good agents killed, Keith,” Shiro reprimands as he sits behind his desk. “And despite what you seem to think, I’ve actually had Lance under consideration for a while. Your screw up last night only made him a more necessary part of the team.”

“So can he fight?” Keith asks. “Can he kill?”

“If he does his job, he won’t have to,” Shiro demurs. “Keith, I didn’t make this choice to undermine or punish you.”

Regardless of what Shiro says, that’s what if feels like.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said you were one of the best,” Shiro says, folding his hands over each other. He’s the picture of cool collection. “But you’re brash. You go with your gut, not your brain, and sometimes, your gut feeling isn’t enough. You go in alone, and because of that, you go in with nothing to lose. That makes you dangerous, but it also makes you incredibly vulnerable.”

Keith puffs his chest out and says nothing, extremely uncomfortable with Shiro’s words.

“I brought in Lance because he’s charismatic. He’s good with people. You may not believe it, but you could learn something from him.”

Shiro is right. Keith doesn’t believe it.

Shiro gives him a look, like he knows what Keith is thinking.

“You’ll undersee his basic training,” Shiro plows on. “Teach him how to defend himself, how to hit and take a hit. I’ve just gotten wind of a new target, and I’ll need you both ready when Pidge and I decide it’s time to pick it up.”

Keith nods. No matter how much he’d like to frame it otherwise, Shiro has hired a dead man. There’s no way Keith can teach him enough to keep him safe. Keith has been at this for years, and some days, he can barely keep himself safe.

“Good,” Shiro says, as if that was the end of the issue. “Now go and show your new partner the ropes.”

Keith, hands clenched hard in his pockets, goes.

* * *

Keith decides to start training the next day. He gives his excuses and gets the hell out of dodge. He works out, he goes grocery shopping, and he holes himself up in his apartment and cleans. Maybe one part of his life doesn’t have to be a train wreck.

He picks up old clothes from his bedroom after he restocks the fridge. His washing machine isn’t the newest, but there’s still enough life left in it that it takes the oversized load that Keith hastily tosses in it. In his room, Keith starts tossing garbage into his wastebasket; when that fills up, he goes to the kitchen and grabs a trash bag.

Keith gets into an easy cleaning groove when he gets into the swing of things. Cleaning is mechanical and yet requires all of his focus. He doesn’t think; he doesn’t need to; his apartment is filthy, and he needs to clean it. His stomach makes a sound, but he ignores it. He’ll eat once everything is clean.

When his bedroom and living room carpets are as clean as he’s going to get them, he pulls out the vacuum. It’s a loud, angry sort of machine, but it gets the job done when he needs it. He finishes up his bedroom and pushes the vacuum towards the living room. It shuts off suddenly; Keith had forgotten to pull its plug before he left the room. Rather than go back to retrieve it, Keith whips the cord through his bedroom and jumps (literally) out of dodge as it sails past him. Instead of roping it in, he tugs the cord again, whipping it past him and hitting the vacuum in the process. He’s probably not going to get it any closer, so he bends over to pick it up.

A chair creaks from around the corner and Keith freezes.

This apartment is only five years old. It creaks occasionally, but never that loud, and never like _that._ Keith plugs the cord into the wall; his vacuum cleaner has become an excellent mechanism to muffle his footsteps.

Keith keeps a gun in every room in his house. It’s simplicity itself to retrieve one from his room.

He abandons the vacuum in the hall and tiptoes towards the living room. He steels himself on the corner and pauses, resolve strengthening as he unlocks the safety of his gun.

After he turns the corner, Keith will shoot if there is someone in his apartment.

He braces himself—

_One…_

_Two…_

_Thr—_

“Hey dude,” the new guy says through a mouthful of sandwich, “Got any mustard?”

A millisecond later, and he would have had a hole in his chest.

“Lance, what the _fuck_ are you doing in my apartment?” he shouts, gun still aimed firmly at the intruder. Coworker or not, _no one_ invaded his privacy like this.

Lance, despite having every reason to not look like he was at home, ranging from the gun pointed at him to the fact that this was, in fact, _not his actual home_ , looks right at home at Keith’s table.

“Uh, Shiro told me where to find you,” Lance says, eying the gun in Keith’s steady hands.

“Shiro doesn’t have my key,” Keith shoots back with deathly certainty. “How did you get in?”

Lance apparently decides that Keith isn’t going to shoot him and goes back to his discarded sandwich.

“Picked the lock,” Lance says with an easy grin. “It’s one of Hunk’s, isn’t it?”

Keith nods, sighs. Of course Hunk’s roommate would know at least some ways around Hunk’s tech. Lance probably learned how to disable the lock straight from its creator.

“Did he show you how to do it?” Keith asks, strapping the firearm to his side and leaning back to unplug the vacuum. It dies with a pitiful whimper.

“Nah, he hates it when I mess around with his stuff,” Lance says. “There’s a sandwich in the fridge for you, if you’re interested.”

Keith would have declined if his stomach hadn’t been rumbling for the past half hour. Logically, he probably shouldn’t be taking food prepared by people who break into his apartment, but it’s his food and damn it, he’s not going to let Lance eat all of it himself. He grabs the sandwich and sits across from Lance, at his usual spot.

“Why’d you leave so fast earlier?” Lance asks. “Shiro told me we’d be training together after I got a tour of the place. Which, by the way, was awesome! I knew Hunk was into some weird stuff, but I’d never guessed he was a spy!”

“We’re more like ethical thieves,” Keith explains, not exactly thrilled at diving in to the semantics of his work.

Lance lights up. “Shiro and his merry band of thieves!” he crows, laughter soon following. Keith doesn’t think that the analogy is that far from the truth. “So, steal from the rich and give to the poor?”

Keith nods. “Steal _back_ from the rich. We only run stings on people who’ve stolen from others first.”

Lance eyes Keith for a second, gears turning in his brain. Keith is about to ask what he’s thinking about when Lance’s eyes go saucer-wide.

“You’re the one who almost took that tapestry from Rodger Belington!” he cries. “Damn dude, what happened?”

Keith can feel his cheeks reddening.

“I made a mistake,” he admits, looking away from Lance. “One that will never happen again.”

“Well that’s ominous,” Lance says and takes the last bite of his sandwich. Keith takes a bite of sandwich in reply. It’s actually really good, but he isn’t about to complement the guy who broke into his apartment on his culinary skills.

Lance moves back into the kitchen with his plate, quickly washing it off. Keith sees him turn to the pile of dishes sitting in the other half of the sink and begin to wash those as well.

“You don’t have to do that,” Keith says quickly, wanting to chime that he was _going_ to do them until he thought Lance was an assassin out to kill him in his own home.

Lance waves him off. “I stole your food, merry man. Let me do the dishes, at least.”

Keith wants to bristle, but the sandwich is good and the company…isn’t so bad either. Keith finishes his own sandwich and brings his plate to Lance.

“Since you’re here anyway, we can start training today,” he decides, leaning his shoulder on the fridge and crossing his arms.

Lance, bless him, jumps and pumps his arm up with a whoop.

“Secret agent training! I can’t believe this is actually happening,” he laughs, like washing dishes in Keith’s kitchen while Keith drills him on basic reconnaissance is the highlight of his month. “It’s like something out of kid Lance’s biggest fantasies.”

“When I’m done with you, you’ll wish that they had stayed fantasies,” Keith says, half hoping Lance knows it’s a bad attempt at a joke and half knowing that even if it was, there was truth behind the words. Lance…was about to get his ass kicked.

Instead of laughing or shying away, Lance turns. There’s a fire in his eyes that surprises Keith as Lance steps closer and presses his soapy fingertips on Lance’s shirt. Lance leans in, and for a second, Keith has no idea what is about to happen—

“Give it your best shot, merry man,” Lance whispers in his ear, and Keith can hear the Cheshire smile that Lance wears when he steps back from Keith and winks.

Keith can feel that blush coming back with a vengeance—and for the first time, he thinks this may all work out, somehow.

* * *

The next day, Keith comes in and sees Pidge sitting at their desk, grinning ear to ear. That smile can only mean one thing. Keith heads towards their desk and leans his hip on the edge to look at their screen. They only look up once, smile still firmly attached to their face, before they start talking:

“This is perfect Keith, Shiro’s gonna be so psyched about this one. You know the CEO of Galra Inc.?”

Keith nods, not that Pidge sees. Their fingers are flying a mile a minute.

“His name is Zarkon. His business has a nasty habit of hostile takeovers and trust buildings, plus a whole slew of nasty things. Zarkon himself is a piece of work, too. Lots of accusations swept quietly under the rug, lots of random disappearances and money moved around. The guy’s like a movie villain. At the end of every fiscal year he throws a huge party with a bunch of other one-percenters and celebrates how rich he is.”

“So where do we come in?” Keith asks.

Pidge’s grin widens.

“So a few years ago, Altea lost its King and Queen in this freak accident, leaving Princess Allura to take the throne before she wanted to,” Pidge begins. “However, in the chaos, someone managed to sneak in and steal the royal family’s prized possession: a set of lions carved purely from a single, enormous jewel. There are five, and each of them comes from a different precious gem. When the Princess learned what had happened to her family’s collection, she was enraged.

“Allura found out who had bought each of the lions. The red beryl, the grandidierite, the demantoid garnet, and the yellow sapphire had all been purchased, but somehow or another, she managed to get them back. It’s the last one, the serendibite lion, that’s giving her problems.”

“And that’s because Zarkon has it,” Keith says. Pidge nods.

“And that’s what we’re hitting next,” they say. “And I know the perfect time to hit the place.”

Keith frowns, not seeing where Pidge is trying to lead him. They had a flair for dramatics, but Keith did not share that particular brand of chutzpa so many of his teammates admired.

“When?” Keith asks, and Pidge pouts.

“It’s June now, they say slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Do you know what happens at the end of June?”

“The solstice?”

“No!”

Keith shrugs.

“It’s the end of the fiscal year! When Zarkon throws his huge money party at his personal home!” Pidge says.

Keith frowns. “We’ve tried sneaking me in through parties before,” he says. “It’s never worked.”

Pidge is grinning now. “But we haven’t tried sneaking you in through parties with _Lance_ before,” they counter and laugh when Keith remembers that he’s not the only field agent anymore.

This is the scene that greats Hunk and Lance when they walk in: Pidge nearly doubled over in laughter and Keith, beat red, ramrod still, next to them.

“Hey guys,” Hunk says, putting a large duffle bag on his desk. Keith nods at the two of them. Lance smiles at him and slides into Hunk’s chair; he immediately starts fiddling with something on Hunk’s desk.

“Hunk, I’ve got our next job!” Pidge almost cackles as they beckon him to take a look at their screen. Hunk shrugs of his backpack and plops it on Lance as he walks over. As the two get caught up in numbers and semantics, Keith turns to Lance.

“You ready to start?” Keith asks, and Lance nods, a determined tick in his jaw. Keith beckons Lance to follow him to the back of the room. Lance doesn’t say anything as they stop at a bare wall. Keith presses a button under the wall’s decorative trim and the door swings open.

“This is gonna be so cool,” Lance says, excitement oozing off of him.

Keith doesn’t have it in him to disagree.

* * *

They go through warmups as Lance’s eyes dance over everything in the room. It’s a training room that Hunk designed and Pidge programmed, so Keith can excuse the lack of focus just this one time. It’s a fairly large room that is decorated to mimic their most common targets. On the back wall is a full-sized museum-esque building, a full four stories tall, that juts out of the wall. The idea Hunk had was that it would be easier to practice for a mission if everything was as realistic as possible and Pidge was on board before Hunk finished pitching his idea. There are moving security cameras that blare an alarm if they sense movement. The doors and windows are wired to set off alarms if they are tampered with as well. There are a few other surprises that the room will randomly generate each time it activates, but for now, Keith makes sure that they stay off.

“What do you know about fighting?” Keith asks after a short run. Lance is panting lightly, but Keith is glad that he seems to be in relatively good shape.

Lance reddens a bit and rubs the back of his head.

“No formal training,” he admits, and Keith nods. He was expecting something along those lines.

“Acrobatics? Gymnastics?”

“Nope,” Lance says. “Completely self-taught.”

Keith stifles a sigh.

“Then we start from the beginning,” he says, and they move towards the mats.

Keith starts with falling. It’s easily the most important skill he has in his arsenal, sans his ability to fight. Keith has been doing gymnastics all of his life, so he tries to impart his knowledge of the skill onto Lance.

Nothing seems to take. Lance prefers the shoulder roll to Keith’s forward roll. He already knows how to fall (“It’s not that hard, Skippy!” Lance laughs after popping right up from a running roll), so Keith moves on.

They spend the rest of the morning testing Lance’s limits. Keith decides to spend the rest of the week pushing them as far as they’ll go.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Shiloh! I was wondering if you'd like to finish this story with me?


End file.
